


I could use someone like you

by Rabenschnabel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Barty Crouch Jr Appreciation 2k19, Enthusiastic Consent, Infatuation, M/M, Master/Servant, Obsession, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-01-27 00:00:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21382741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rabenschnabel/pseuds/Rabenschnabel
Summary: During the worst of the Wizarding War, a new recruit manages to take Lord Voldemort's mind off of the everyday banality and responsibility of trying to overthrow a government.It helps that the young man has a quick mind, a clever mouth and more devotion than ought to be legal. Then again, both of them have always had a taste for the forbidden.
Relationships: Bartemius Crouch Jr./Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Bartemius Crouch Jr./Voldemort
Comments: 22
Kudos: 166





	1. You are on your own

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Muse's 'Psycho' which has officially become my shipping song for Barty/Voldemort <3
> 
> This is purely self-indulgent smut with hardly any plot. I'm not going to list every sexual act these two get up to but rest assured there's plenty—nothing that would need to be explicitly warned against and definitely no consent issues. Barty is more than willing to oblige his lord~
> 
> While Voldy does refer to him as 'boy' all the time, Barty's 17/18 in this.

It had been a long and tiring day. Most of the days of late had been long and tiring what with the war and everything, and Lord Voldemort felt his patience with those under him wane with every hour. 

So when Rabastan approached him with news of yet another supplicant for the day, he had half a mind to Crucio the intruder on principle. 

Instead, he waved a hand and allowed Rabastan to lead in his visitor. 

It was a welcome surprise to see young Regulus Black approach his throne-like armchair in the Lestranges' library. 

"Regulus," Voldemort addressed him coldly. "I hope you know the hour and are sure that your business is pressing. You have not yet given me reason to chastise you but today I would have little mercy even on you." 

"My Lord," Regulus greeted and bowed low. "My matters are indeed pressing for I bring a new initiate who has little time—only in the evenings, at the moment, lest his absence be noted." 

Voldemort deigned to acknowledge the other presence standing beside Regulus. It was little more than a shadowy figure, hidden behind cleverly applied glamours and notice-me-not charms. 

"And you vouch for them?" He allowed his voice to show a little of how intrigued he was. 

"He's a friend," Regulus confirmed, voice confident. "It's just better if no one knew he was here, that's why we decided to hide his identity." 

"Very well." Voldemort got up from his throne and approached the two men standing a respectful distance away. "You may leave, Regulus." 

A last short eye contact between the two, both nodding, and then Regulus left after another low bow. 

Voldemort examined the shrouded figure with interest and started walking around him. 

"You wish to follow me?" 

"Yes, my lord. Please don't expect to have a big moment of revelation when you see my face—you wouldn't know me," the initiate was quick to add. "I was hidden for, well, political purposes." 

"A defector from the Light then," Voldemort deduced. 

He liked that the young man, for even with his voice garbled by magic he sounded young, was clearly nervous but not afraid. 

"You could say that, my lord," the young man agreed. "I come from a Light family but I have… never quite fit in." 

With a flick of his wand, the glamours and charms fell and Voldemort stopped his pacing to study the new face reverently looking up at him. 

Young man seemed far-fetched now, he was looking at little more than a boy. He was scrawny, with straw-blond hair and warm blue eyes returning his piercing gaze with no hint of fear—only a nervous sort of energy. 

"I'm afraid you are right, boy," Voldemort agreed after he'd catalogued the boy's features. "I don't know your face." 

The boy heaved a sigh. 

"But you will know my name." He took another big breath and seemed to steel himself for a revelation Voldemort found himself anticipating as well. "My name is Bartemius Crouch." 

Voldemort couldn't quite stop his brow from inching up his face. 

"Is that so?" He felt his lip curl up into a smirk. "Named after your father, I suppose?" 

"Unfortunately so, my lord," the boy answered with disdain. "I wish to sever what ties I have left with the Light and to serve you truly!" 

Here, the boy dropped to his knees and bowed low to kiss the hem of Voldemort's robes. 

"If you let me, I will be your most loyal servant and I will never disappoint you if I can help it." 

He allowed the boy to hold on to his robes yet regarded him with coldness. 

"Older men and stronger men have spoken these words to me, yet all of them have disappointed me eventually, one way or another," Voldemort replied and felt a pang of irritation settle in his bones at such lofty promises. "Why would you be any different?" 

Instead of answering, the boy let go of his robes, raised his wand, kneeling as he was, and held it high over his head. 

"_Ignis Maledictus_!" 

Voldemort actually found himself taking a step back as the cursed flames of fiendfyre started swirling around them. Fortunately, it took him only a second to realise that the boy had the spell under his complete control. 

With vague interest, he noted the griffins and oxen and horses contained in the fire's shadowy depths trying to come close to him but retreating when hitting what seemed like an invisible domed wall around them. 

After about half a minute, the spell gradually wore down and the whispers from hell stopped calling for them. 

The boy hadn't even broken a sweat. 

"Colour me fascinated, Bartemius Crouch Junior," Voldemort complimented him. "But rest assured—should you _surprise_ me like that again, you will not see the morrow."

"Forgive me, my Lord," the boy whispered, eyes downcast. "But I had to make sure you know of the truth in my words. I am a Dark wizard and a powerful one, too. Please, give me your Mark!" 

Voldemort had given the Dark Mark to many followers. Many had believed in his cause, others in his power and yet others had taken it because it had been expected of them. 

But few, if any, had stared up at him like this, with open admiration in their eyes. 

"And what can you do for Lord Voldemort, boy? Will you kill my enemies with fire and brimstone?" He put amusement in his voice but the boy's stare stayed solemn. Earnest. 

"I will do whatever you command of me, my lord. Be it to spy upon my father or do research in occult and forgotten magic—or even kill your enemies with fire and brimstone."

"So devoted," Voldemort praised, reaching out with a hand to tangle his fingers in the soft blonde hair. "And if you do disappoint me after all? What then, boy?" 

The slightest tug. A warning. The boy's pupils dilated. 

"Then I shall accept whatever punishment you see fit for me." 

"I see," Voldemort replied with the second smirk for today. Quite a feat. "You have persuaded me, Bartemius Crouch Junior. Give me your arm." 

There it was again. A flicker, a shadow, passing over the boy's face when called by his name. 

As he took the warm, slender forearm into his long fingers, Voldemort decided to get to the bottom of it. 

"Do you not like your name, boy?" 

"I… I do not, my lord," the boy answered haltingly. His first blunder of the evening. "I'm… It is my father's name and it's never suited me." 

"I once knew someone who shared his father's name," Voldemort told the boy after a moment's hesitation. "He changed it the moment he could. I wonder what it is with these fathers." 

"It's probably the fact that fathers who name their sons after themselves are seldom worth striving after." It was delivered in such a bitter tone that Voldemort felt himself reminded of his own father. 

"Indeed." He looked back at the pale arm dwarfed by his long fingers and traced along the underside of it with a finely manicured nail. "You do realise there's no going back, of course." 

"Yes, my lord." There was a shudder running through the boy's body as Voldemort touched him and that knowledge was safely catalogued away. 

"Very well." 

-o-

About two months after he'd Marked young Barty, Voldemort found himself in need of the boy's services. 

"You called for me, my lord?"

Barty's steps were confident and fearless as he walked up to Voldemort's throne and when he got on his knees, he did so elegantly and with reverence instead of fear. 

He kissed not only the hems of Voldemort's robes but also the backs of his bare feet which was as unexpected as it was, again, intriguing. 

"Indeed. I have need of your services, Bartemius" Voldemort disclosed. "I have heard good things about your academic prowess. 12 O.W.L.s, 7 N.E.W.T.s—nothing to scoff at, even at a school run by Albus Dumbledore. You will research something for me, Bartemius. You will find out what you can about ancient rituals involving blood magic." 

The boy's eyes widened with delight. 

"I can do that, my lord! When would you like me to be done? Is there anything in particular you would like me to focus on? I could do it twofold—first the normal stuff everyone knows and then–" 

"Bartemius." One word and the boy shut up. Pleasant. "I suppose you were a Ravenclaw?" 

The boy's answering grin was a cheeky, bashful little thing. 

"Ah, yes my lord. Professor Flitwick used to call me as stubborn as Rowena Ravenclaw herself." 

Voldemort nodded his head in acknowledgement, trying to fight down the growing fondness behind his navel. "There are no guidelines. I merely expect your best work." 

The boy looked affronted, almost, at the notion that he might ever not do his best but swallowed the retort down. 

"I won't let you down, my lord." 

-o-

About a week after that, there was a knock on the door to the Rosier Estate library where Voldemort was currently holding court and Evan Rosier let him know with a dubious expression that he had a visitor shrouded in glamours. 

Voldemort merely waved Evan off and had him let Barty in. 

The moment the door shut, the boy wordlessly let his glamours fall and came striding up to him once more. 

"My Lord!" he greeted enthusiastically, bowing low and letting a thick stack of parchment float next to him while he kissed the hems of Voldemort's robes and the backs of his feet. 

This time, the boy's gaze stayed down until he was addressed. 

"I see you have completed your research already, Bartemius?" 

"I have, my lord," Barty answered and let the parchment fly over with a lazy movement of his wrist. 

Voldemort decided then and there to find out how good an idea it had been to put some stock into the boy. 

While he read through the thesis, Barty stayed kneeling before him, head bowed. He was doing some fingerplay or other and moving his mouth without speaking, wordlessly singing along to the movements of his fingers. 

Absent-mindedly, Voldemort stretched out a little on his grand armchair which brought his bare feet so close to Barty's dancing hands that skin met skin. 

He felt the boy freeze and looked up from the parchment to see Barty's young, open face shine with an unasked question. 

An almost imperceptible nod later, and Voldemort enjoyed an unexpected foot massage while reading through the second half of the thorough, well-crafted abstract. 

Finally, when he was done reading, Barty changed to his other foot and looked up expectantly. 

"This was well-researched, well-written and had just the right amount of information to be neither too short nor too mind-numbing," Voldemort confessed and saw the boy's formerly passive expression turn into a bright, adoring (and relieved) grin. "I find myself wondering why I don't have more Ravenclaws in my service." 

He leaned forward and put one hand on Barty's head. As expected, the boy leaned up into his touch. 

"I knew you would appreciate it so I was very conscientious." 

Voldemort considered something then, and let his hand wander from Barty's hair to his cheek. 

"Will you fight me if I look into your mind?" 

The boy shivered against his hand, pale flesh so warm against Voldemort's cool fingers. 

"I have passed your test," Barty replied in lieu of answering and again, his pupils dilated. "I won't fight you. In fact, I shall invite you in." 

"_Legilimens_." 

Immediately, Voldemort felt himself bombarded with thoughts and whispers and feelings and he forced his own shields up to defend against the mess. 

Young Barty's thoughts were in disarray, memories practically fighting against each other to be viewed first. 

Voldemort broke the connection. 

"I appreciate the enthusiasm, but this is not going to work, Bartemius. At least not without me hurting you." A pause. "Would you like me to hurt you? Your pitiful father's sworn enemy, willingly invited into your mind?" 

"Yes," Barty breathed, trusting puppy dog eyes wide with wonder. "I'd like that." 

"Show me why you hate him so, boy." 

This time, the memories were more orderly. A brief overview of a younger Bartemius Crouch Sr barely making it home in time for dinner while a matching duo of blonde, blue-eyed mother and young son were waiting in a dreary living room. 

Pretty soon, they ate alone every evening. 

When Barty went off to Hogwarts, his mother was the only one to say goodbye at King's Cross. 

All the letters he received were penned solely by his mother. 

During breaks, his father asked after his grades shortly before Barty's bedtime and either simply nodded when they were O's or looked disappointed when it was anything less. 

It went on like this for a while and soon enough, Voldemort emerged back. 

"Ah yes, paternal neglect." he summarised and watched Barty sit back on his haunches. "Show me why you decided to come to me." 

Again, he entered Barty's mind without the least bit of resistance, and again, he bore witness to the boy's feelings. 

The first thing he noticed this time around was the pervasive submissive sense of adoration permeating the outer layer of Barty's mind. 

He flicked through strands of trying-to-belong-somewhere and someone-please-appreciate-my-hard-work and finally settled on a memory of a younger Barty, alone in a snowy Hogwarts courtyard, reading a book and taking notes with cold fingers. 

He exited the boy's mind again. 

"You function best in the quiet?" 

"Yes, my lord," Barty answered, shaking his head a little as if to get rid of some cobwebs. "There are few people I can tolerate, to be honest. I prefer watching over interacting. Quiet over noise. You get the idea." 

Voldemort leaned back again in his chair and steepled his fingertips together in front of his face. 

"I am interested in you, Bartemius," Voldemort admitted. "I don't say that often, much less to anyone's face. I wish to look into your mind some more, but for today, I shall retire. I will have a bedroom prepared for you." 

-o-

The next day found Voldemort perusing his servant's mind again. Just because he could, maybe? It was fascinating to watch a quiet, brilliant boy become a quiet, brilliant man and he couldn't help but see himself in some aspects of the boy's tale. 

Voldemort was lounging on a low settee like the Roman conquerors of old while Barty sat cross-legged on a cushion by his head, face carefully blank. 

"You feel these things for me, Bartemius? Desire?" 

"I'm, I'm sorry my Lord," Barty was quick to stutter. "I, I know it's not appropriate but you are a very desirable man and—and I've never been good at staying away from what's forbidden." 

"You would have stolen the apple from the tree in Eden without a glance back if given the chance," Lord Voldemort found himself chuckle and Barty's eyes went wide with the unfamiliar sound. 

Voldemort supposed he was beautiful like this, all wide-eyed innocence and boyish good looks belying a dark soul snarling beneath. 

It had been very long. 

Before he could talk himself out of the idea, he had sat up on the low couch, extending a hand to his servant. 

"Come here," he commanded, indicating the space between his legs and Barty came crawling over with trepidation. 

"My… lord?" 

"Is this not what you had in mind?" 

In a flash, Barty's face grew white as chalk before instantly turning a very fetching shade of cinnober.

"I just—I never thought you'd–" 

Instead of waiting for the boy to find an end for his sentence, Voldemort parted his robes to reveal simple black trousers and a grey, light shirt. 

Barty did a most peculiar kind of keening sound and surged forward to slot himself into the space between his master's legs. 

He seemed to know to be quiet and simply busied himself with nosing into Voldemort's crotch, breathing deeply. His hands, hesitant at first, found their way to Voldemort's thighs, carefully kneading the firm muscles. 

Voldemort found himself relax back into the backrest, enjoying the simple sensations more than he'd anticipated. 

"May I?" 

An experimental tug at his fly and Voldemort nodded sharply, raising his hips when Barty pushed his trousers down over them. 

There was a sudden intake of breath and Voldemort looked down into Barty's delighted face, halved by the hard curve of his master's cock. 

Again foregoing words for actions, Barty reached out to grip the base of Voldemort's cock and proceeded to lick along the underside of it. When he reached the tip, he swallowed the head like he was born for it and sucked on it, making Voldemort's toes unexpectedly curl. 

From deep in his gut, a hunger for more roared its head and his hips bucked forward almost of their own accord. 

Barty simply hummed at the intrusion, licking and sucking and massaging with his mouth. Voldemort fisted a lazy hand into Barty's fair hair and dictated the rhythm with which his servant's head bobbed up and down on his cock. 

It couldn't have been long at all but his hips suddenly found their own rhythm and pushed up up up into the wet heat. His second hand joined the first and held tight onto Barty's hair, stroking and petting it while his mouth whispered profanities and his hips began to stutter. 

When he came deep into his servant's throat, he saw stars and crumbled against the backrest after he was spent. 

Like a good boy, Barty had swallowed it all down and was still kneeling between his legs, lips slightly parted. His eyes were glossed over and the blush on his cheeks was exquisite. 

"You did well," Voldemort practically purred, smoothing the blonde hair down where it was sticking up from him holding onto it. "It's been a long time for me and it's, it's never been as easy as this." 

Voldemort was half afraid the boy might explode with that praise but fortunately, he got a grip on himself. 

"I will have you touch yourself," Voldemort commanded and watched the boy take a shivering breath. 

"Yes, my lord," he whispered obediently, voice raspy from having his throat fucked and really, the debauchery suited his young face very well. 

Voldemort watched with interest as Barty opened his own robes to free his erection from his dove grey trousers. 

He would have liked to watch his hand movement but the boy sagged forward, forehead resting against Voldemort's thigh—ever so careful at first but when no complaint stopped him, he practically buried his face against the rich fabric hugging Voldemort's legs. 

When he felt the turmoil beginning to brim over in the boy, Voldemort grabbed his shoulder. "Look at me," he commanded and as always, Barty obeyed immediately. 

His cheeks were flushed, his lips slightly parted and the little puffs of air escaping through them were warm against Voldemort's arm. 

The boy came not seconds later, screwing his eyes shut in abject pleasure and biting his lip harshly. Voldemort deigned to card a hand through the boy's hair again and was rewarded with a whine and a warm head pressing into the contact. 

He looked into the boy's mind again and found relief, adoration, lust, wonder, adoration adoration adoration. 

He'd never felt it this pure and free from expectations towards him. 

"Thank you, my lord," Barty whispered, daring to press a soft kiss to the inside of Voldemort's wrist—a barest hint of lips. 

Voldemort was surprised to find himself shudder in response and he realised that he was going to kiss these lips eventually. 

  
  



	2. Lost in the Wild

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I come bearing more smut *raises hands*

Word had quickly gotten around among the death eaters that Lord Voldemort had finally found someone whose research into the occult and forgotten was good enough for him. He'd seen his servants toast to each other in Lucius' mind and let them celebrate his more relaxed state of mind all they wanted. 

If it stemmed not only from the formidable research Barty was doing into soul magic or rituals or obscure dark curses during the day but also from the fact that the boy spent most evenings with his mouth on Voldemort's cock—well. They obviously didn't need to know about that. 

"You have yet to ask me for anything in return, Bartemius," Voldemort told his servant who was still kneeling in front of him.

Barty craned his neck to peer up at his master, leaning against the wall behind him while refastening his robes. Voldemort would never admit it, but doing this, having this done to him while standing was an exquisite torture. His thigh muscles were still quivering from the effort of remaining upright. 

"What else would I need, my lord?" 

It must have been this one simple question, Barty's face scrunched up in confusion, that had Voldemort make him stand with a flick of his wrist. 

He pulled the warm, slender body into his own and made Barty look up with a finger under his chin. 

"_Legilimens_."

Confusion. Longing. Adoration. Longing. I-take-what-you-give. Longing. He broke the connection again, leaned down and claimed the boy's lips for his own.

He'd have expected the boy to melt into his touch, maybe shudder a little, but he wasn't quite ready for what he got instead. As it were, Barty got on his tiptoes and pressed back into the kiss, hands coming up to cradle Voldemort's face with warm fingers and yes, he could definitely taste himself on the boy's tongue when it entered his mouth. 

Voldemort let things go on like this for a while because it made his skin sing and because it had been ever so long since someone had wanted him without expecting anything in return. Truly, had anyone ever wanted him just for himself? 

Finally, he gently pushed Barty away and the boy went without hesitation. Voldemort was surprised to see that he was grinning like a loon. 

"I can't believe you let me do that," Barty whispered feverishly, all pent-up with nervous energy. 

Voldemort realised the boy hadn't even come yet and curiously rubbed his thigh against the bulge in Barty's pants. 

The reaction was instantaneous. Barty's eyes closed and he bit his lip as if in pain. 

With a smirk, Voldemort turned them around and pushed Barty in the wall, parting the boy's legs with his thigh. 

"So responsive," he cooed. "I wouldn't even need Legilimency to read your thoughts, young Bartemius, would I?" 

"I have no secrets from you, master," Barty grit out, voice heavy with emotions he didn't dare speak aloud. "Your, haha, pleasure is my pleasure." 

And because it seemed like the right thing to do, Voldemort leaned down again and kissed him and Barty craned his neck to reciprocate as best as he could. In response, Voldemort growled and used a little too much teeth which had Barty whimper wantonly. When he tasted copper on his tongue, Voldemort pressed the boy harder into the wall and allowed him to rub himself shamelessly against his master's thigh. 

He even let his hand wander down to the front of Barty's pants and cupped the bulge with his hand. His servant stilled immediately at the contact and looked up with wide eyes. 

"Master," he groaned, brimming with energy and lust. A little trail of blood was running down the corner of his mouth. "Are you… sure? I… you don't have to. Nothing has to change!"

"Shhh," Voldemort hissed into his servant's mouth and swallowed every protest down. Barty became like hot wax in his fingers, pliant and submissive, grinding into his master's hand with abandon. 

With a gesture, Barty's pants slid open and down and Voldemort wrapped his fingers around the hot flesh of the cock he'd been curious about for weeks now. 

It was soft and velvety and so very warm in his hand.

"Perfect," Voldemort growled into Barty's mouth, pressing bruising kisses into those willing red lips and rolling the plump lower lip between his teeth. 

His servant whimpered when he bit down, opening his legs more to give him even better access and for a second, Voldemort could imagine himself slotted in between them, engulfed in a very different kind of heat and tightness. 

It was at this moment that Barty came with a shudder, looking deep into his eyes with a mixture of wonder and bliss and abandon and Voldemort thought to himself that he could get used to this sort of adoration. 

He held the boy up as he panted, _ scourgifying _ away the mess between them, and waited for his servant to catch his breath. 

"Master, I… I never thought I'd, you'd—" Barty shook his head, focus back on the present. "Thank you, my lord. I will never make you regret this." 

And strangely enough, Voldemort believed him. 

-o-

Voldemort was loath to send Barty out on missions and he was absolutely positive that he was working up to having an honest to Merlin weakness. 

Thus, when a big raid was upon them that called for all hands on deck, he had put the boy into the group led by Lucius to prove to himself that he was able to let go easily. 

But when he waited in their meeting chamber, itching to get any kind of news - not only about their success but about his young servant's survival - he cursed himself and vowed to abstain from their liaison lest he become too attached. Even more attached. Bugger. 

When the first masked figures started popping into existence around him, postures confident and victorious, he allowed himself a triumphant smile.

Once everyone had returned, they removed their masks and came to sit at the table. 

Some looked at Barty's form, shrouded in glamours, with distrust but most knew better than to question their newest addition. 

"Lucius, report," Voldemort demanded. 

"As you wish, my Lord," the aristocratic man responded immediately. "Everything went according to plan. The main part of our forces wreaked havoc at the Quidditch match while my group infiltrated the ministry. We got the documents you wanted from the DoM."

"Excellent," Voldemort praised them and everyone visibly relaxed. 

"My lord," Lucius continued, hesitant but not afraid. "We've been wondering about our new sibling."

Here, most pairs of eyes quickly flicked towards Barty. The shadows he was shrouded in belied his emotions, of course, but they'd spoken about this. 

"If you have your reasons to keep his identity secret we will understand, my lord," Rodolphus was quick to add. "But as your most loyal, we'd greatly appreciate if you dared trust us with this." 

He observed all of them with detached interest and finally nodded. "Very well, my faithful, I shall oblige you in this. Bartemius, reveal yourself." 

The whispers started with the name and only grew when Barty's boyish face appeared from under bis glamours, looking at the assembled veterans with a confident expression. 

"It's been an honour fighting amongst you today," the boy declared. "I hope you won't hold my ancestry against me." 

"The director of the DMLE's own son…," Nott whispered. "You've done it now, my lord. There's no one who wouldn't follow you if given the choice." 

"Oh, but young Bartemius came to me of his own accord," Voldemort told them and basked in the respect of his Inner Circle. "You know his identity now but no one outside this illustrious round must find out or we won't get any more certified reports about the aurors' movements." 

They all nodded, stealing gleeful glances at their new spy. 

-o-

When the debriefing was over, only Bellatrix and Barty remained. 

"Yes, Bellatrix? Was there something else?" 

Bellatrix looked quickly over towards Barty who'd gotten out a stack of parchment with research he'd been doing. They'd planned on going over some of the Dark rituals Voldemort wanted to undergo still. 

"I was wondering whether there was… anything else I could help you with? Both my families, the Lestranges and the Blacks that is, wield a lot of influence and if there's ever anything you need, my lord, anything at all, I'd be more than happy to provide." 

Inwardly, Voldemort sighed because if that wasn't a blatant proposition, and not the first one at that, he didn't know what was. 

"I'm quite satisfied with the documents that have been procured tonight, Bellatrix," Voldemort denied her. "If I can think of anything you could do for me, I shall contact you." 

Again, Bellatrix glanced over at Barty who was now following their conversation with interest. She was jealous, probably. Whether she had worked out that there was more to his and Barty's one-on-one time than scholarly pursuits he couldn't know without infiltrating her mind but infiltrating her anything sounded exactly like what he was trying to avoid here. 

"I could always—" 

"We are done here, Bellatrix Lestrange. Leave this room." 

Never one to disobey a direct order, Bellatrix strode out the door with a last venomous glare towards Barty who returned it with a detached sort of curiosity. 

"What a weird woman."

Barty's dry comment had him roll his eyes. 

"She's jealous." 

"What? Of me?" 

"She's always desired me." 

Barty frowned and crept closer, documents floating beside him with a thought. Voldemort felt pride rise in his chest at his pupil's casual display of wordless, wandless magic. 

"I've also always desired you."

"Tell me once again, Bartemius, what you expect in return." 

It was Barty's turn to frown now when he reached his master's huge chair. The boy made to kneel but a magically-charged gesture of Voldemort's had him stumble forward and land on his master's lap. 

Voldemort positioned the pliant body so it straddled him and grabbed the boy's hip bones to grind their groins together. 

"You only expect whatever it is I deign to bestow upon you," Voldemort answered for him and Barty nodded, breathless. "Bellatrix, while a formidable fighter and a loyal servant, would want to rise above even the rank of my right hand."

"What, like your Dark Lady? But she's _ married_!"

"Precisely. And while I like the Blacks, I have no patience for sycophants or oathbreakers." 

"I'm part Black too, you know," Barty told him and Voldemort felt his brows rise. "My fath- my, my, uh, my grandmother on the paternal side was a Black. Charis Black was her name and she married Caspar Cr-Crouch. I'm sorry, master, but those names, I–" 

"Your father deserves not a son like you, dear Bartemius," Voldemort drawled, rolling his hips up into the boy's. 

"Master—" 

"Shh, look at me. Let me see the lust in your eyes that I might drown myself in it," Voldemort commanded and Barty obeyed, as he always did. 

Eyes of cornflower blue, returning his gaze not with fear or calculation but devotion, wonder, even fondness. 

Groaning against the tightness in his chest and his pants, Voldemort grabbed roughly at the boy's hair and pulled their mouths together in a bruising kiss. With an answering moan, Barty's lips parted and a teasing tongue invited him into the boy's mouth. 

Voldemort went willingly and explored the wet heat his cock had spent so much time in with an almost scholarly curiosity. The softest graze of Barty's teeth on his tongue had him open his eyes and they parted, both panting.

Emboldened, the boy stroked his face with a trembling hand.

"A bit of a blush suits you, master," Barty whispered, voice heavy with lust and longing. 

"I almost didn't send you on that mission today," Voldemort confessed, claiming the boy's lips in another brutal kiss that ended with a coppery tang in their mouths. "I was half-afraid I'd never see you again." 

"There will be others just like me, my lord." Barty shook his head and gave a bit of a crooked smile. "And I can hold my own in a fight." 

"Still," Voldemort pushed the boy's hips down once again and ground up into him. "I thought I might push you away now, given that I seem to have become attached but I find myself perfectly unwilling to do so." 

"Then I consider it my honour to serve you still, my lord."

With that, Barty's hand started wandering down Voldemort's chest, no doubt planning on opening his pants and giving him pleasure, but he bade the boy stop with a look and a simple command. 

"No." It was but one word and yet he saw Barty's world beginning to crumble down around him. "Not no in general, you silly thing. Look at me. Properly. I don't want stolen kisses and frantic grinding in uncomfortable positions. I shall take you to bed, I should think." 

Never before had he seen a civilisation rebuild as quick as Barty's little world just then and he was rewarded with a hug, something they had seldom, if ever, shared. 

"I'd like that very much, master," the boy whispered into the nape of his neck and Voldemort shivered from the intimate contact. 

Deciding to show off a little, he roughly grabbed Barty around the waist and Apparated them both directly onto his bed on the other side of the manor. The boy was still kneeling on his lap, perched on the foot of the bed and looked around curiously. 

As it were, there was little to see in terms of personal belongings. The clothes in his wardrobe, some magical artifacts, books—little else. Soon enough, Barty's attention was all his again. 

He grabbed the boy's wrists and turned them around, pushing him further up the covers until he was flush against the mattress. Voldemort laid down next to him, stretched out on his side, head propped up on one arm and splayed his hand over Barty's chest. 

"Tell me what you'd like me to do to you." 

"I want you inside of me, master," Barty purred without hesitation, hands coming up to cup Voldemort's cheeks. "I want nothing more than to have you deep inside of me when you come." 

"As I thought," Voldemort replied with an indulgent smile and stole another kiss from those sinful lips. 

Barty's deft fingers soon found the buttons holding his robes together and parted them with a breathless gasp. Voldemort allowed him to open the shirt he wore underneath as well and soon enough, warm fingers ghosted over his chest and ribs. 

"You're beautiful," Barty whispered, leaning up to press his face into Voldemort's smooth, hairless chest. "I'm still—I can't believe I'm actually here with you." 

In response, Voldemort claimed the boy's mouth with his own again and used his free hand to open Barty's robes. He didn't even wear a shirt underneath, much less trousers. 

"Were you expecting me to devour you today, Bartemius?" 

"I always hope for it to happen, master," the boy admitted with a bashful smile and shivered when Voldemort's fingers ghosted over the small patch of light curly hair on his chest. 

"Mhh, good answer."

Voldemort made short work of their remaining clothing by spelling it all away and revelled in the expanse of naked flesh exposed to his senses. 

Barty's cock was already hard and leaking, resting heavily against the boy's stomach now that the restricting fabric was gone. With a fond roll of his eyes, he put one of Barty's hands on his back, inviting him to touch and explore and revelled in the full-body tremble that gesture prompted in his lover. 

He paused, then, because he realised for the first time that that was exactly what they were. 

_ Lovers. _

Barty, ever so insightful, so finely tuned to his master's needs, stopped the reverent caress of his back and looked up at him with a worried expression. 

"Shall we stop after all, master?" 

"I've merely realised something," Voldemort explained and got up to kneel over the boy's legs, sitting down heavily on his thighs. "We're lovers, you and I." 

Apparently, that had been the right thing to say, because the boy suddenly surged upward and pulled him back down into the soft mattress. Strong, insistent calves draped themselves around his waist and drew him in and Voldemort went along with a breathless chuckle. 

"So eager," he praised, rubbing his achingly hard cock against the boy's own erection. "So willing. If you could, you'd take me without any preparation at all, wouldn't you?"

In response, Barty whispered a spell Voldemort had never heard before. Instantly, he felt a warm wetness against his thighs and curiously stroked between the boy's cheeks to find him wet with lube. 

"I see," he groaned, feeling his cock twitching with pleasure at this wanton display. "You came prepared." 

"A good servant always anticipates their master's needs, my Lord Voldemort."

Voldemort looked up from the welcome wetness of his servant's hole and gifted the boy something he kept hidden for special occasions only: a real smile, the one he knew crinkled the corners of his eyes and let them shine with joy. 

Barty shuddered against him and screwed his eyes shut. 

"You even dare speak my name, Bartemius? I have only half a mind to be surprised, but it flatters me nonetheless." 

As a reward, or maybe just because he felt like it, Voldemort leaned down and kissed the boy deeply, languidly exploring his mouth like he liked to explore his mind. Turned on as he was, his hips kept grinding into the boy and soon, insistent hands grabbed at his cock and positioned it near the boy's inviting wetness. 

"Tell me, is it some kind of specialised stasis charm?" Voldemort took hold of his own manhood now, rubbing the head teasingly over Barty's taint. "Did you prepare yourself for your lord and master before the raid?" 

Barty nodded, breathless, trying to press back into the contact. 

"Yes, it's, I looked it up in a book I found. Please, master, please, _ please_!"

The boy was whining now, back arched and throat bared. Voldemort realised he was rather beautiful like this. 

"I suppose it would be easier, more comfortable, if you were to turn around, but then I wouldn't be able to look into those pretty eyes of yours," Voldemort groaned into the boy's neck and started viciously sucking on the tender spot where neck met shoulder. He only let go once the flesh turned blue and Barty started whimpering in earnest. 

"Fuuuck," Barty moaned, calves digging deeper into Voldemort's lower back. "Anything you want, master, if you want me on my hands and knees I'll gladly ob, hah, oblige you." 

Wouldn't that be poetic justice? Having the son of one of his staunchest adversaries on his hands and knees before him, willing and ready to take whatever his master gave him? 

But then another train of thought intruded, one filled with the urge to _ possess _ and to _ take _ and it was almost too much to think of the sweet, devoted boy moaning under him in relation to anyone else. 

The boy was _ his _ and Lord Voldemort took exceptionally good care of what was his. 

Without any more teasing, he pressed into his servant's inviting heat and his forehead came to rest on the boy's shoulder. He could feel sweat beading everywhere on his body, prompted by the heady warmth and delicious tightness surrounding him. 

"_Master,_" the boy groaned, gripping the sheets tightly and breathing heavily. "Yes, _ yes,_ please, all the way, _ please._" 

Voldemort could only oblige and sank deeper into the velvety heat, burying himself in one slow, unrelenting thrust until his balls, heavy with arousal, rested against the boy. 

They stayed like that for a moment, breathing in sync, until Voldemort got on his elbows and looked into his servant's eyes with wonder in his gaze. 

"Thank you, master," Barty whispered, stroking his cheek with a trembling hand and Voldemort pressed a quick kiss to it, quite overwhelmed with the unearthly pleasure being this enveloped afforded him. 

Experimentally, he pulled out a little, pushed back in and shuddered with the sensation. Barty was shamelessly moaning under him, hands grabbing at his back and stroking, petting, scratching at his ribs and it was all rather lovely. 

The boy started rocking his hips, then, urging him to movemovemove and Voldemort did so easily, pulling out almost all the way before sinking back in with a groan. Had he known that lying with a man could be so easy, so pleasurable—but who would he have taken to bed? 

Abraxas, whose clever mouth had whiled away some hours in shady alcoves and disused classrooms? Eustace Rosier, always striving to beat him in class and thus get a young Tom Riddle on his knees but losing every bet anyhow? Not like that had kept him from playing… 

He returned to the present when Barty took hold of his face and pulled him down into a passionate kiss, all tongue and teeth and none of their usual finesse.

Wonder quickly gave way to lust and greed and Voldemort started up a relentless rhythm of thrusting in and out. He reveled in the wanton moaning and breathless cries this elicited from his servant and roughly grabbed the boy's legs. 

The angle when he pressed Barty's thighs down onto his own chest was even better, impossibly deeper, and the boy was gasping now. Little puffs of breath, eyes half-lidded, and entirely at his mercy. Voldemort leaned down over him, folding him in half, and bit down on one pectoral muscle that seemed to beckon him. 

Barty keened beautifully, all overstimulation and soreness, feebly trying to push his head away while urging him on with little pleas and gasps of encouragement. 

When Voldemort felt the familiar tightness creeping up inside his belly, he raised his head again and reached between them, taking a hold of Barty's cock. The head was already leaking precum which made stroking the boy a deliciously loud and filthy affair. 

As expected, it only took a bit of squeezing and some filthy compliments whispered into the boy's ear and he came undone. Voldemort groaned into the ensuing tightness as the boy spasmed under him and followed soon afterwards, coming as deep inside of Barty as he could manage. 

Utterly spent and feeling quite detached from his own body, he slipped out of his servant with an over-stimulated gasp and positively flopped onto his back. The air was nice and cool against his feverish skin. 

Through his post-coital gaze, he watched with a frown as Barty got up from the bed and walked over to the desk chair whereto Voldemort had banished their clothes earlier. 

"And what do you think you're doing?" Voldemort asked, pretty sure of the answer already. 

"I'm, uh, leaving?" 

The boy was holding up his robes, almost hiding behind them as if shy all of a sudden. 

Voldemort rolled his eyes and patted the bed beside him. 

"Your lord has need of your body heat for the night, my servant," he winked and watched Barty flush all over. 

"Who am I to refuse such an important demand," Barty quipped back, walking back towards the bed with quick strides. 

The boy hesitated a little, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, but ultimately slid under the covers and watched as Voldemort wiggled under them as well. Emboldened by having been accepted so, the boy shyly pulled at him until Voldemort was draped over his chest. 

A gentle hand started carding through Voldemort's dark curls while another pulled him even closer. He listened as the boy breathed in deeply, nose half-buried in his hair. 

"You smell nice," Barty complimented him sleepily. 

"I reek of sex." 

"Exactly…" 

Barty fell asleep quickly after that. The boy's breathing became rhythmic and deep and the quick, excited beating of his heart slowed down hypnotically. 

It had been years and years since he'd slept with other people in the same room. Ever since his school days, to be precise, and even then, with most of them loyal to him, he'd never gone to sleep without warding his bed extensively. 

He summoned his wand and warded the bed as other people would a fortress, except this time he wasn't alone behind the parapets and battlements. 

Vaguely, shortly before falling asleep, he thought it might be nice not to spend an eternity all alone. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
